Point Blank

by Diane M. Campbell

  “It must have been pretty rough last night,” Mark said.

  “It was busy all right, but things went smoothly like you hope they will when something like this happens.”

  Mark nodded. “They showed the crash site on TV this morning. It’s amazing the bus driver was the only casualty.”

  “Unfortunately, a second victim passed away this morning, and the hospital in Wakeville has two others that are still critical.”

  “We’ll continue to pray then.” Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know if they have a chaplain up there? Maybe I should make a trek up to Sierra Memorial.”

  That was so like Mark—jumping in to help wherever needed. Lance smiled, then remembered the Jane Doe. “One of the injured hasn’t been identified yet. You can pray that situation gets resolved soon.”

  Mark’s interest turned to concern. “Someone’s unidentified? What happens then?”

  “Oh, they’ll figure it out. You know. Fingerprints, dental records. There are lots of ways to identify someone. But her family needs to be notified and every hour that goes by—”

  A chirp on Lance’s phone interrupted. A text from the Blood Bank in the east wing: Urgent need for O-Neg. Can you come in?

  “I’ll let you take care of that,” Mark said, side-stepping toward the elevators. “You should come to home group tonight. It would give you a chance to relax a bit—decompress, as they say—and we could pray for you.”

  Lance clicked off the message. “Sure, I could probably do that.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Lance picked up his pace on the way to the Blood Bank. Pastor Mark cared deeply, so he would never think of declining his prayers. All too often, though, his own seemed painfully inadequate, like those he’d cried out when Marla was near death. Mere Band-aids applied to a severed limb. In the years since her passing, his conversations with God had dwindled—something best left to the clergy, while he focused on his own skill set.

  Dalton’s charms were growing on me. Maybe it was the effect of inhaling its crisp mountain air or the serenity of my morning walk through its quiet streets. No harsh traffic. No pressures or deadlines. Such a contrast to the stressful uneasiness that had swelled in me during Brock’s call. But I wouldn’t blame that on Brock. He needed a respite too.

  My spontaneous decision to make this trip wasn’t just about reconnecting with Dad. There was a sense of urgency behind it too—I had to get away from there. Away from … something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Worst of all, trying to remember it was like trying to focus on a tiny pinprick of light—almost visible in my periphery, but vanishing when focused upon.

  Dalton’s serenity was a far more pleasant diversion. It had proven it deserved better than my initial designation of Nowhereville.

  Maybe when Brock arrived tonight, he would also begin to benefit from Dalton’s charms. He’d been under so much stress all season, becoming focused to the point of obsession about his chances at a pro-football career. Taking a week away from Hillman might do him a lot of good. Of course, Abbi’s disappearance needed a quick resolution too, but I couldn’t help feeling relieved that I was nowhere near the hub of the investigation.

  A crisp breeze could be heard high in the pines that sheltered the north edge of Mrs. Wilton’s property, but all other aspects of the place exuded peace, quiet and contentment. While I walked up the long cobbled drive approaching the old mansion, I enjoyed the sun’s warmth on my face. Soon, I caught bits of piano music emanating from inside the house. I tuned my ears to the easy melody and climbed the steps to the front door. The tune was an old hymn I recognized from childhood, though the name escaped me. It seemed a shame to interrupt, so I paused on the porch and listened to the familiar chord progressions.

  When the chorus concluded, I opened the door and stepped inside. The sliding doors of the room on the right were open to reveal a glossy black baby grand piano and a full-sized harp, both centered amid a lavish décor in soft rosy pink hues. An over-abundance of ivory lace curtains, swags, and doilies seemed to cover every surface.

  Mrs. Wilton sat at the piano, fingers flying as she revived the chorus and swayed with each press of the foot pedals. The setting might have called for a Victorian gown, but she wore her simple house dress and bedroom slippers—the same attire I’d noticed at breakfast. The scene warmed me all the way through, even with my sore shoulder.

  At the sound of the door closing, Mrs. Wilton glanced up with a smile and adjusted her glasses. “You remember this song?”

  “Kind of. It’s a hymn, right?”

  “It’s Softly and Tenderly, one of my favorites. But then I have a lot of favorites.” She pointed to a chair beside the doorway. “Have a seat, my dear.”

  I sat and rested the box of pie on my lap. Next to me, an antique pitcher and bowl sat atop a doily on a small end table. But my attention focused on the harp. “Do you play this also?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve played the harp nearly as long as I can remember, but this—” She ran her fingers swiftly along the keys. “Well, playing this handsome instrument may have converted me.”

  Did she mean to imply that she hadn’t played a piano before? I blinked, then chose to let the odd comment pass. “I’d love to hear the harp. Would you mind playing something on it?”

  “Not at all. I was playing it earlier while you were out.” She went to its upholstered stool and set aside a doily draped across the seat. Flexing her fingers, she made a long, slow strum across the strings creating a heavenly sound that resonated right through me.

  The song began simply. It wasn’t a tune I’d ever heard before. The harmony felt both poignant and uplifting. Quietly and gradually the music grew in complexity, with joyous swells of great emotion that flowed from the strings and filled the house. I marveled that such depth could flow from a single instrument. Like the current of a stream, it swept me along with delicate splashes of high notes and warm swirling currents in the lower range. So beautiful, and poetic in a way words could not describe.

  Several enthralling minutes passed, and after a final sweeping lift of emotion, the strings slowly faded to silence.

  “That … was … amazing.” Tears brimmed my eyes. “I’ve never heard anything like it. Is it classical? Who wrote it?”

  Mrs. Wilton’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “They were known as the Sons of Korah.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Brave men.” Her eyes raised as if drawing on a memory. “Loyal warriors of David’s army, and as you see, also gifted song writers.” She stood and replaced the doily. “Many people think David wrote all the Psalms, but a few like this one, were written by others. Nowadays, it’s known as Psalm 46.” She tapped a finger at her lower lip. “I don’t recall the original title.”

  “Wait a minute.” I rotated on the chair as she walked by. “Are you talking about King David from the Bible?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She paused at the door to the foyer and lifted her chin with a slight sniff. “You know, I think our soup is about ready. Are you hungry for some lunch?”

  Mrs. Wilton’s quirkiness had struck again. This time, I didn’t let the matter go. “So you’re saying King David’s warriors wrote the music you just played? I thought we only knew the words of the Psalms. No one knows the music, do they?”

  She smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘no one.’” She ambled down the corridor to the kitchen. “The real tragedy is that nowadays, no one remembers what a good singing voice David had.”

  There, she did it again. Sweet as Mrs. Wilton was, my grandad would have said that her boat wasn’t securely tied to the pier.

  I followed her into the kitchen and put my pie in the refrigerator. Then I helped set the table while she dished up bowls of steaming chicken and vegetable soup with a dollop of sour cream on top.

  “Stir it in to make the broth creamy,” she said.

  While savoring its richness, I remembered Brock’s impendin
g arrival. “Oh, I almost forgot. My boyfriend is on his way here today.”

  “Perhaps this is why you’re feeling uneasy.”

  “No.” My denial had a questioning lilt that made me sound unconvinced. “What I mean is, I feel fine. I’m glad he’s coming. We’ve only been dating a few weeks, but I’ve grown to depend on him quite a lot. It’ll be good to have him here.”

  “Well then, I’ll make sure a room is ready.”

  “And we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Why did she always say things like that? How did she know? But I didn’t pursue my questions. I chose instead to let it go and focus on enjoying my lunch.

  “Just one thing,” she added a few minutes later. “Be sure to lock your door tonight. It’s best to keep temptation at bay.”

  I stopped in the middle of lifting the spoon to my mouth. “Of course.” Not that it was any of her business. Besides, her advice seemed more motherly than invasive. It raised the beginnings of a smile to my mouth while she wasn’t looking.

  I passed the afternoon in my room, reading in preparation for a Microbiology class that would start with the new semester. Cheri texted the phone number of the investigators and I stared at it for a minute wondering what kind of help I could be to them. For all I knew, they might have already gathered enough information from others at the party. I had nothing more to offer. Nothing.

  After a minute of conflicted indecision, I put the phone down and turned my attention back to the life-cycle of tardigrades.

  The only other interruption was late in the afternoon when Brock texted. He was still a few hours away but wanted the address of the inn. Other than occasional sounds of Mrs. Wilton puttering in the house, the day passed quietly.

  After supper, Mrs. Wilton asked if I wanted to sit in the parlor with her while I ate my pie. I sat on the sofa while she chose one of the wing chairs, switched on the table lamp, and slid a bag out from beside it. In a moment, she’d retrieved a ball of thread and crochet hook which held the start of something lacy.

  “What are you making?” I asked. It looked a lot like a doily.

  “At first, I thought another table runner would be nice.” She extended a length of ivory string from the ball. “But now I think a nice little doily might be best.” She adjusted her glasses. “If I change my mind again, it won’t matter much, since my table runners are basically long, narrow doilies.” She smiled with a wink. “You crochet?”

  “No, I don’t have time for things like that in college and probably wouldn’t have the patience anyway.”

  “Patience does seem to be in short supply these days.” She worked the hook, her slender fingers moving with deft precision.

  “And then there’s all those tiny little stitches,” I added. “I’d be so stressed about making a mistake and having to unravel everything to try to make it right.”

  “Mmm, yes. Mistakes do happen from time to time.” The elder woman’s brow pinched as she held her work out at arm’s length. “It’s definitely easier if you catch them right away.”

  “So, what do you do if you’ve gone too far along and cannot go back?”

  “Cannot?” Mrs. Wilton turned her gaze to me. “Life offers people so many choices. It’s unfortunate that some folks put undue focus on their mistakes, believing they cannot be made right again. Sometimes, all it takes is seeing the options they still have.”

  The conversation seemed to have shifted. Were we still talking about crochet? I studied the wedge of coconut custard on the tip of my fork.

  Apparently unaware, Mrs. Wilton resumed brightly, “At any rate, I’m glad you decided to stay for another night. I was hoping we’d get another chance to talk.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a scripture that the Lord has been pressing on my heart ever since you arrived. I wonder if you’ve heard it before.”

  Here we go. I paused, resting the fork on my plate.

  “I can’t think of where the verse is exactly, but Jesus says, ‘There is nothing hidden which will not be revealed, nor has anything been kept secret but that it should come to light.’”

  “Sorry, I wouldn’t know where to find that verse either.”

  She stopped her work to chuckle. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. It’s enough for me to know Jesus said it.” She refocused on her thread and hook. “I’m quite sure He brought it to mind because He means something about you is hidden—or has been hidden from you.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be.” Even as I spoke, the missing girl from the New Year’s party came to mind. Was it possible Mrs. Wilton could key in on something significant for the police investigation?

  “Not to worry,” Mrs. Wilton’s voice soothed. “I’m sure it will become clear when it needs to.”

  Was God trying to reassure that Abbi would be found? And if so, would she be dead or alive? In my experience, God’s assurances didn’t always mean good outcomes. But what if Mrs. Wilton had a certain kind of clairvoyance? Did it matter that she liked to attribute her gift to the Divine? The world was full of strange, unexplainable things.

  I cut another segment of coconut cream pie with my fork. “It’s weird you should talk about this, because my roommate called earlier with news that a girl from school is missing. Do you think maybe God plans to reveal where she is?”

  Mrs. Wilton’s brow pinched as she considered this. Finally, she resumed her crocheting. “The Lord knows about the missing girl, there’s no doubt about that. But I’m quite sure He’s giving this message to you, Penny.” She cast another glance my direction.

  Her words gave me a chill. “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “I think rather that something has been hidden from you.”

  I attempted to swallow a gradual swell of frustration. “Well, if God or Jesus or whoever is going to reveal it, why doesn’t He? Why is He keeping it a secret?”

  “I don’t know, child. His ways are not our ways.”

  Hmmff. I had to agree with her last statement, though. God’s ways certainly didn’t correspond with mine. I didn’t respond and soon Mrs. Wilton attended to her lace again.

  I placed my fork back on the plate. That’s when we heard a knock at the door.

  Brock had arrived.

  Setting the pie plate on the coffee table, I went to the door, intending to give Brock a warm welcome with arms around his neck. When I opened it, though, he pushed in with a duffle bag, his handsome face clouded like a thunderstorm about to descend.

  I stepped back and tried to give him a smile. “I’m so glad you made it okay.”

  “It took forever to find this place,” he muttered. “There’s no sign, and the only streetlight is halfway down the block.”

  “It’s a small town.”

  He pulled his cap off, loosening dark waves of hair that fell over his furrowed brow. “You could have given better directions.”

  “Sorry.” I reached to take his bag, but he set it beside the door.

  Mrs. Wilton appeared at my side. “Hello. Welcome to Wayfarer’s Inn, Mister—?”

  “Harper,” Brock and I responded in unison. I chuckled and Brock’s disposition lightened a smidge. At least he managed a brief smile for Mrs. Wilton’s benefit.

  “May I help with your coat, Mr. Harper?”

  “Sure.” He removed it and loaded her arm, nearly engulfing her tiny frame. Then he topped it with his scarf.

  She waddled to the closet under the stairs.

  Brock wiped his boots on the rug and whispered while she was out of earshot. “We need to talk.”

  I took hold of his arm. “Later. You just got here.”

  His mouth twisted, but he held his tongue.

  When Mrs. Wilton emerged from the closet, I resumed a normal tone. “Mrs. Wilton and I were visiting in the parlor. Would you like to join us?”

  I took Brock’s arm and steered him to the sofa, hoping he would turn on the charm I knew him to be capable of. He sat next to me, and Mrs. Wilton returne
d to her chair and picked up her crocheting.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Harper?” She squinted through her glasses to adjust the thread on her hook.

  “You can call me Brock.” He glanced around the room with a critical eye. “It was fine, thanks.”

  Mrs. Wilton didn’t seem to notice his scrutiny of her home. “I understand you are a student at the same college Penny attends.”

  “Yeah. Hillman Oaks,” he replied. “Just outside Phoenix.”

  “We met after a football game the weekend before Thanksgiving,” I added. Brock’s posture seemed awkward, like he was unable to relax. I patted his knee, attempting to settle the agitation I assumed came from hours of driving. “I went to the game because my roommate’s cousin plays on the team. Cheri—that’s my roommate—she introduced us.” I glanced toward Brock. “That was an exciting evening, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

  “It was the night the Panthers made it into the division championships. When we started seeing each other I had to take a crash course in football. Especially after their big win.” I draped my arm on Brock’s shoulder and smoothed the hair on the back of his head. He didn’t notice. “Just last week they played in the Oasis Bowl. The press coverage has been so exciting. Life around this guy has become a whirlwind.” I pulled my arm back and picked up the pie from the coffee table. “Yup. It all started with that game before Thanksgiving.”

  Mrs. Wilton glanced up from her handiwork. “So, you hadn’t known each other from class studies?”

  “No, but we did discover we were attending the same humanities class without knowing it.” I glanced to Brock and elbowed his ribs. “It’s a popular course—lots of students.”

  Why was Brock so distracted? I offered him a forkful of coconut cream. “Want a bite?”

  He waved it off.

  Mrs. Wilton paused her work. “I’m not familiar with that. What is a humanities class?”

  “It’s a combination of related subjects that includes studies on culture, the arts, language, philosophy—”